Indian Country

by Kurt A Schlichter

  “You know, I’m country, not stupid, Kelly. You trying to take Jasper back into the red? Is that the plan?”

  “That’s above my pay grade, Langer.”

  “When an officer doesn’t want to answer a question, that’s what he always says,” replied the former Marine.

  “You got me there. Hit the TV. Find some news.”

  The cable box was still working – Article 366 of the People’s Republic Constitution guaranteed “free access to cable television and internet service, as appropriately regulated to eliminate hate speech, including but not limited to racist, sexist, and anti-LGBTQN$%EÜ speech and paradigms.” The right to be protected from “unprogressive paradigms” was also enumerated in various forms in Articles 3, 47, 234, 562, and 722 through 771. Those articles set forth the list of banned mindsets in significantly greater detail.

  Langer changed channels until he found what he was looking for. There used to be hundreds of channels; now there were dozens, because the People’s Republic had decided that people did not “need so many choices,” as the elderly Rationalization of Production Minister Bernie Sanders had put it. So many different options was wasteful and irrational in the government’s view. His first initiative had been to limit the number of deodorant types to two, “men’s” and “women’s.” That had created an entirely new controversy as genderfluid individuals protested. Now there was simply one deodorant, called “Deodorant,” which smelled like wet cardboard and stained your shirt, blouse, or burqa.

  The People’s Republic was hoping to soon be able to expand the constriction of choices to products throughout the economy as part of its quest for greater freedom.

  Langer aimed the remote and clicked past a dance contest show where the best participants wore weights to negate their advantages, as well as a documentary documenting the many hate crimes the red states still allowed, like sex-separate bathrooms. He settled on CNN. Its headquarters moved from Atlanta to Boston after the Split, and CNN was proud to have obtained the first television news reporting license from the new People’s Republic. It billed itself as “CNN: Your Trusted Source For Approved Information.”

  Tonight, CNN had nothing about the attack, but it did have vague rumblings about an increase in “racist hate crimes” across Southern Illinois, Indiana, and Ohio in recent days. These criminals would be swiftly punished, the announcer assured the audience. Apparently, Jasper wasn’t the only area getting uppity with the overlords.

  And there was another important bit of news. The anchor was one of the lesser Cuomos and about twenty-five years old. Xis gender was difficult to ascertain and xis eye patch gave xe away as differently sighted. Xe announced, “And as of today, the border crossings with the racist states have been closed. President Warren today announced that the citizens of the People’s Republic will no longer provide a safety valve for the racist states’ victims of economic oppression and social injustice.”

  There was some footage of the doddering President Warren being helped to the podium. “These restrictions,” she said, her eyes wide but unfocused, “will provide a new dawn of freedom and diversity as we eliminate the influence of illegal and unapproved ideas and….”

  She stopped, blinked and looked confused, and then the camera cut away.

  There was a title card reading “OFFICIAL PEOPLE’S REPUBLIC ANNOUNCEMENT FOR THE SOUTHERN ILLINOIS, INDIANA AND OHIO REGIONS.”

  Turnbull stopped cleaning the Beretta and watched as a different newsreader, this one pretty clearly identifying as male, appeared on screen.

  “Good evening. Terrorists supported by the racist states are at work undermining our progressive progress. These criminals and their accomplices will be held accountable! Because of the epidemic of racist hate crimes throughout the southern portions of Illinois, Indiana and Ohio, the people have demanded strict action. Until further notice, the following activities are banned. All religious services, except Muslim and Wiccan services. Also, witches and crones are authorized to continue their moonlight rituals to the Earth Mother Ge-ga-gia-,” the reader stammered, staring hard at his teleprompter.

  “Gaia,” he finally said, triumphantly. “Also, all sports leagues, and all unapproved large gatherings are banned. Travel will be restricted within these areas. Random identification checks will be in effect. Petroleum and food supplies will be reviewed.”

  “So they want to starve us,” Langer said.

  “Starve the people who grow all the food?” asked Turnbull.

  “Also,” the newsreader continued, “due to the demands of students to protest these hate crimes, tomorrow all students will participate in voluntary and spontaneous protest marches in their towns. These protests will be organized by the school staff and are mandatory. Finally, all citizens are urged to support their People’s Security Forces as they continue their successful operations to suppress these racist criminal terrorists. Citizens are urged to report any terrorist activity to their local People’s Bureau of Investigation units. Together, we will hold these terrorists accountable!”

  The shot went back to the regular newsreader. “The people of the People’s Republic stand united in defense of diversity and social justice,” the newsreader assured the viewers. “And thank you for watching. This is Castro Cuomo, for CNN, reporter’s license number 474497T.”

  Langer picked up the remote and clicked it off.

  “I haven’t watched much TV since they banned ultimate fighting,” he said. “Ain’t missed it.”

  “It’s on now,” Turnbull said. “These are your folks. You think these people can handle it? Think they’ll fight through it or roll over?”

  “Well,” Langer said. “I don’t know about my folks. We were always kind of white trash, the people everyone else told their kids they’d end up like if they messed up. But they’re good people, and you can only push them so far. I think these People’s Republic sons of bitches are underestimating them.”

  “Ah, our zampolit is here,” Colonel Deloitte observed as Major Kaden Little entered the operations center. It was located inside an old National Guard armory in Bloomington, one that had not been refurbished in decades. The military had been last in line for everything in the blue since the Split. That, however, might be changing if things continued as they were going.

  “I know what that means now,” snarled the Command Diversity Officer. Technically, as CDO, the major had authority to override anyone in the command other than the commander himself – and if Little needed to do that, he had the phone number of Deloitte’s boss on his cell.

  “Oh, you do?” Deloitte said. The other staff officers, all either selected by Deloitte or left after he subtly purged the non-hackers and quota fillers from those randomly assigned to him, watched amused.

  “It means ‘political officer!’” Little said, having finally looked it up on Guugle, the breakaway, licensed and regulated search engine that remained in the blue states. Following the Split, Google departed to the red after the People’s Republic demanded real time access to its citizens’ web searches.

  “So it does,” Colonel Deloitte said. “And you’re late, not that you contribute anything to this unit anyway except to thicken the fog of war.” The staff stifled a collective gasp – no one ever spoke like this anymore and got away with it, except Colonel Deloitte.

  “You can’t talk –” Little began, turning red-faced.

  “Shut up and sit down,” Deloitte replied icily. The zampolit sheepishly complied. The colonel turned to his staff.

  “All right, understand we have no orders yet besides a basic alert. This is my planning guidance. The executive officer will give you a timeline for the process and the decision brief, but I want to tell you what I’m thinking and seeing now. There’s unrest across the sector. Minor sabotage, graffiti, and now worse. Evanston, three PSF cars under sniper fire. Other incidents in Salem and Croydon and elsewhere. And of course, 16 dead PVs north of Jasper. They drove straight into an ambush. Whoever set it knew what he was doing. We are not
facing just a bunch of farmers with deer rifles, though that would be bad enough. They’re being organized. I’m betting US Army SOF, because they are doing exactly what I’d be doing. Colonel, put the overlay on.”

  The operations officer, a squared away lieutenant colonel with a high and tight haircut, pulled an acetate sheet over the map. It was old school – no computerized maps that might fail when the electricity went out during one of the increasing frequent “Climate Caring” brownouts. The overlay divided the territory into three colors – red, pink and clear.

  From Ohio to Iowa, it was almost all red in the southern half of the states. A few of the small towns were pink. Only a few of the areas around the bigger towns showed no red at all.

  “Now the fun part. You know the President closed the border tonight. That’s an indicator. We also have credible intel of a build-up of red armored and infantry forces south of Evansville, Owensboro and, of course, at Fort Knox. At least three US divisions. They could come north at any time. If they do, our 172nd Brigade defends the western half of Indiana, with the Hoosier People’s Forest as our east boundary. The 363rd is moving south to be ready to occupy positions in the eastern half. The 416th is on our other flank in Illinois. Of course, the 416th’s troops are on strike right now because their mess hall does not offer a vegan alternative,” Deloitte said.

  “So, if you look at the map,” he continued. “You see we’d be defending alone, at least until we get reinforced, deep inside red territory. That means there is no rear area for us. Everywhere is the front line.”

  A sergeant appeared with a cup of black coffee. Deloitte had mentioned off-handedly that he was tired and could use some a few minutes before, and even in a little thing like this his soldiers were trying to fulfill his intent. He took a sip. Good. The mess sergeant had somehow come up with real coffee. He resolved not to ask how – best he did not know.

  Deloitte looked out at his officers and senior NCOs. Most had never been in action; only a few had held over like him from the old US Army after the Split. The PR military was a low-prestige institution, having to beg for every penny from a government more focused with paying off domestic constituents than providing for a defense from outsiders. The US, on the other hand, was highly militarized – a result of the red states’ martial tradition, the pro-military bent of its conservative founders, and because it had to carry the full weight of defending North America after the blues went back on the deal they made to share the burden in the Treaty of St. Louis that formalized the Split.

  “There is some good news. We are getting a helicopter package of four Blackhawks,” Deloitte said.

  “Jimmy Carters!” Major Little piped up. The name of the PR’s utility helicopters had been adjudged “problematic” and had been changed to honor one of its most revered former US presidents.

  “And four Apaches,” continued Deloitte.

  “Woodrow Wilsons!” shouted Little.

  “The helicopter package will be here in Bloomington centered at Monroe Municipal Airfield. We are also getting two Predator drones, with Hellfire capability. They and the controllers will be collocated there. It’s out in the boonies, but we need the runway. S3, slice off a platoon for security. S4, figure out the feeding, fueling and arming.” The ops and logistics officers nodded and jotted down their instructions.

  “We also need to make sure the operations order addresses issues of intersectionality –,” began Major Little.

  “Sergeant Major, help the major leave.” Little got up and ran to the door ahead of the senior NCO, who seemed disappointed not to have a chance to assist.

  “I’m calling HQ!” the Diversity Officer shouted, and then he slipped out the door. It slammed shut behind him.

  “We don’t have orders to assist the civilian police yet,” Deloitte said. “That may come to pass, because they don’t know shit about counterinsurgency and it may all fall onto us to fix this mess for them. If they do, the drones give us 24/7 surveillance and recon. We can use the Jimmy Carters to drop in scouts to interdict guerrillas. But we may have to defend against a conventional red move north. I don’t know what’s going to happen, so we need to plan for both. If we have to roll, it’s pretty obvious where we need to focus. There’s People’s Interstate 69 as one enemy axis heading north-south, and 231 in mid-sector is the other. People’s I-64 runs east-west. These will be critical main support routes for us too if the red forces come north, and they are key targets for guerrillas. They cut those and that’s a lot of food and other supplies that can’t move out of, or through, here. So, here’s my basic commander’s intent for when you’re preparing my courses of action. If it goes down and we get the order, we’re going to focus our ops at the center of all those key routes.”

  “We’re going right here,” Deloitte said, gesturing to a clear island in the middle of the ops map. “To Jasper.”

  Turnbull was just lying down in the guestroom bed, Beretta on the nightstand, when his cell rang. The name that came up was “Peter Dolenz.” He unlocked it, 1-2-3-4, and answered.

  “This is Mike.”

  “We don’t have long,” Clay Deeds said unnecessarily. “We’re aware of your situation.”

  “Sorry about the whole guerrilla war thing. I tried to behave.”

  “You’re not the only one who’s had that problem, but you probably figured that out. It’s starting all across the region. We have 50 seconds.”

  “Do you want me to slow it down now?” asked Turnbull. “I’m not sure it’s something you can set on simmer.”

  “No. I want you to keep it up. The negotiations – they’re at an impasse. Warren closed the border tonight. We need the facts on the ground changed, Kelly. Forty.”

  “So you want me to crank it up?”

  “Do what you do. Make it ungovernable. Thirty seconds.”

  “What about all these nice people who may die because we’re cranking up our secret war?”

  “What about all the ones who won’t die because we’re going to get them out from under the PR’s boot. Twenty seconds.”

  “How long do you need?”

  “Seven days to see if negotiations are going to work. You hold out that long, then we’re coming in one way or the other. Ten seconds.”

  “We can hold out for a week, unless Deloitte sends in his troops. Then it’s something wholly other.”

  “Jasper’s the key to the whole region. You have to hold it. And that’s zero. Good luck, Kelly.”

  The line went dead.

  There was a knock at the door.

  “Come in,” Turnbull said, the pistol aimed at Langer’s face as he opened it.

  “I’m not lonely,” Langer said. “Just heard you get a call and talking. Something I should know?”

  “No,” Turnbull replied. He lowered the gun and placed it back on the nightstand next to a glass of water and a paperback.

  “What’s The Runewench of Zorgon?” Langer asked.

  “Nothing,” snapped Turnbull, pulling the book out of sight.

  “M’kay,” Langer replied, backing out part way, then stopping. “You sure there’s nothing going on you aren’t telling us?”

  “Nope,” Turnbull replied. Langer closed the door, and Turnbull switched off the lamp. He lay there for a long time, staring into the darkness.

  Two PSF officers, both male, walked into the Sunrise Diner with a third man wearing plainclothes. Turnbull put down his watery coffee and slipped the locked and loaded Beretta onto his lap. He’d kill the big uniformed one first, and the smaller one second – both headshots, just in case they weren’t flabby and were wearing vests under their uniforms. He’d do the detective last, then out the back door. If that stupid dog followed him as he ran, he’d consider shooting it too.

  His planning process completed, Turnbull returned to his breakfast. Dale Chalmers was sweating and the Mayor swallowed hard even though his food had not arrived.

  “Just be cool,” Turnbull said, sipping. The three blues were talking to Becky the wai
tress, all friendly-like. Were they attempting to woo the populace and win their hearts and minds, or were they just trying to score a little small town strange? Becky seemed to be having neither.

  “We’re hiding in plain sight,” Dale said. “That’s the best place to hide.”

  “No, it’s actually a terrible place to hide, but we don’t have much choice now,” Turnbull said. He agreed to meet at the diner because he could watch this morning’s proceedings. There were wall-to-wall PSF outside today in anticipation of the “Voluntary Youth March Against Terrorist Hate Criminals and Intolerance.” Turnbull had come in the back door from the rear parking area. It was a small miracle that that stupid dog’s barking had not alerted anyone; it was beyond him how it could bark so loud being so small and with a dead frog in its mouth.

  The big PSF looked over at them and then tapped the detective on the shoulder and pointed. It looked like he was pointing at the Mayor, an assessment by Turnbull that saved their lives. The trio approached. Turnbull did not reach for his gun just then; he smiled harmlessly as he thought through exactly how, if necessary, he would reach for his gun and kill them all.

  “Mayor Silver, you need to come with us,” said the detective.

  “Where?” the Mayor asked.

  “Just some questions. We’re talking to a lot of leading citizens today. So, you need to come to the station with us. Now.”

  “And miss the march?”

  “Let’s go,” said the detective.

  The Mayor looked over at Turnbull, who met his eyes. The Mayor rose and the PSF took him by the shoulders.

  The detective turned to the two remaining men. “And who are you?”

  “Dale Chalmers,” said the insurance salesman.

  “Mike,” Turnbull said. “Mike Nesmith.”

  “ID?”

  Chalmers handed his over. Turnbull took his wallet out of his shirt pocket and removed the driver’s license. He handed it to the detective, who looked it over. He then ran them both through a portable reader.

  “Why are you so far away from home, Mr. Nesmith?”